I have lots of interests. I could probably spend an hour coming up with a list of them and still forget a whole bunch. Interests say a lot about a person in sort of general terms, in the sense of you'd know whether you'd have much to say to them at a party or know whether you'd fight over the radio on a long road trip. I like interests; they're cool.

But there are interests and then there are the things you love. They both say a lot more about what really matters to you and say a lot less because, as with other sorts of love, sometimes there's no rational explanation. Without further ado, here are some things i love:

- New Order
- Jane Austen
- Louise Brooks
- David Foster Wallace

Love is not rational or practical. It is not capable of weighing the good against the bad and coming to an accounting. I will not fall out love with New Order even if they make another "Republic". I still love David Foster Wallace even if I find most of his stuff unmemorable. Oh sure there are teen crushes, infatuations, stalker obsessions.. but I think I can say at this point that I will probably love at least three of these for all my days, even when we're old and gray and there's no more surprise in a page of "Pride and Prejudice" than there is in my own face in the morning.

Oh sure sometimes you fall out of love. Jeanette Winterson, I think, I might count as an ex. Oh, we still get along okay and care about each other a lot, and I'm sure I can't read "Written on the Body" without getting choked up, but somehow the spark is gone. We drifted in different directions. I told her "I love you, but I'm not *in* love with you."

When I first met New Order it was love at first sight. No, I suppose that's not quite right. I'd heard them in soundtracks like "Pretty in Pink" and "Something Wild" but I hadn't been properly introduced. When I heard "Substance" I was swept away. It was like nothing I'd ever heard before, precise and beautiful like math, but with an eerie dark mood underneath. It's been love ever since, in spite of long dry spells, "Republic", their fragmenting into seemingly countless glossy pop bands... their human frailties and missteps just multiply my affection. I will probably go to my grave singing "The Perfect Kiss" or "Thieves Like Us". I will probably be cremated with Substance in my hands.

I can't even clearly remember when I met Jane Austen. It was "Pride and Prejudice" (perhaps fortunately; I love it the best of all her books, and many people I've met were irreversibly turned off of her by high school force-feeding). If I recall correctly, I made my way ravenously through all her other books (too few) and branched out to other writers of similar times or subject matter (in fact, I am an easy sell on a book if someone describes it as Austenesque). I've reread Pride and Prejudice probably every year or two since high school, re- or rere-read most of her other books and have seen most of the film adaptations (yes, including Clueless, and the 6-hour Pride and Prejudice several times). My relationship with Jane is a little simpler -- barring some shocking discovery, we pretty much know everything we're going to find out about her, and I don't have to worry that she'll write something awful or that we'll drift apart. Of course, I could still change. You never know. I've felt the same for a long time though.

I think perhaps movie stars and other celebrities are the easiest to fall for and the easiest to tire of. I could probably list a dozen I've had serious crushes on but who I don't really care about any more. The whole celebrity dynamic really lends itself to adolescent crushes, well past adolescence. But Louise Brooks I return to again and again. Somehow she's timelessly beautiful, elegant, fascinating, etc. Maybe part of it is that we don't know much about her beyond a number of movies (many of which haven't survived), a bunch of photos, some writing, and a sketchy biography. Even though she was alive into her 70s or 80s, she all but dropped out of sight in the 1930s and we are left with very little but those perfect portrait photos, and a hair style that comes back around every few years. She was stunningly beautiful in full glamour mode, but equally attractive in candid tousled moments. She apparently lived a carefree and defiant life, and there's a tinge of tragedy to her retreat/ejection from hollywood and solitary life. It's depressing to think what might have been had she gone on to make sound movies and leave us a much larger body of work.

David Foster Wallace is the most recent of my loves, and perhaps my feelings have not yet stood the test of time. I can't deny though how much I love "Infinite Jest", "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again", and some of his other writing. It must be love when you read an 1100-page book three times in four years. His narrative persona in his essays especially inspires affection; he's neurotic and self-doubting. He makes hilarity of the ridiculous people around him, but rarely in a cruel way -- his most incisive mockery is reserved for himself. Sure, he's written a lot of stuff that isn't especially memorable, and his style is hard to sustain, walking a fine line somewhere between self-parody, annoyance, and genius. I don't know what he'll do next or how I'll feel about it. Perhaps in a few years I'll count him as an ex, or a brief infatuation. But even as I write this, what I really want to do is run home and reread "Getting Away From Being Pretty Much Away From It All" and write "MP loves DFW" on the cover of my trapper keeper.

02/25/2002